The Experiment
by LittleReporterGirl
Summary: A nice little story in which Watson reveals his true feelings for Holmes. Very Holmes/Watson. Don't like, don't read. ;)


**This is a story that I started several years ago, when I was still in high school. I started reading the series again recently and remembered that I started to write a few fanfics and this is one of them. It wasn't complete, but it is now. Please enjoy and don't forget to review! Thanks. **

Author's Note: Ello there! So, after an afternoon spent reading fan fiction from my little cell phone (no easy feat, mind you, though I wish I could review some people's stories) I was forced to wash dishes by my mother. I say forced- I'm supposed to do it every other day, but somehow have weaseled my way out of doing dishes for…about a month now. Anywho, for some reason I decided to do the dishes and was halfway through when this little story popped up in mind and would not leave me alone. So I have abandoned the task of doing dishes and am sitting down to write. Hopefully all will go well, but it _is _late and I _do _take the graduation test tomorrow (Language Arts section, luckily, my best subject). But I digress.

Disclaimer:

I do not own the great detective nor the good doctor, for if I did the series would have been a lot more interesting and, if I may be so bold as to say, consistent. I have read that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the original author, did not appreciate Sherlock Holmes. He claimed Holmes kept him from writing better things by becoming too popular. In my opinion, this is rather douche-y and Doyle should be grateful for what he got. It is this unappreciation of Holmes that caused many discrepancies in the series and caused such rumors as Watson having between 3-6 wives. I mean, honestly! Watson is not a "playa". But again, I digress. Please enjoy this little story and let none of my animosity towards the original author affect your judgment of my fanfic.

Watson had no idea how long it had been. How long he had been lying on the cold ground next to Holmes' still form, worrying and cursing the lack of light. It could have been days or weeks or even years…though the possibility of the latter was quite unlikely. Most likely he would have starved to death by now and Holmes would be dead. His breath hitched a moment as he thought of this and he shook his head in the darkness, putting a hand on Holmes' wrist to check his pulse for the billionth time. It was the only reassuring thing in this wretched black pit.

Holmes hadn't moved since they'd been thrown in- who knows how long ago- and Watson feared he had hit his head. He himself had suffered no serious injuries, though his leg which had been wounded in the war was stiff from being in the same, awkward position for so long. He was also quite hungry, though he had given little thought to food since finding Holmes was injured. With no light available he had began running his hands over the detective's unconscious form, feeling for injury. As he had suspected, when he reached Holmes' temple his fingers came away wet with blood.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed and therefore had no way of ascertaining the seriousness of his friend's injury. If it had been over 24 hours, Holmes should have awoken by now. He could only have a mild concussion or he could be in a permanent vegetative state. The doctor had no way of knowing without the slightest source of light.

He wasn't afraid of the dark- that was foolish. In fact, he would not have given the lack of light too much thought if he hadn't been so worried about Holmes. He hadn't dared let himself sleep, for fear that light would appear and he would miss it or Holmes would awake and he wouldn't be there to assist him. Watson knew, however, that he would have to sleep sooner or later. He felt quite certain after- how long had it been? At least 24 hours, he was sure, though he didn't want to admit it because the more time passed, the worse off Holmes would be- he felt quite certain that no source of light was going to appear.

Finally he sighed and stretched wearily, gritting his teeth as pain shot through his leg. As gently as possible he moved Holmes a little so that he might lay down beside him a little more comfortably in their dirt prison. They had been out in the countryside, tracking a criminal who had killed a lone farmer yet taken nothing from him. A senseless, seemingly purposeless murder. They- or Holmes, at any rate, with Watson following faithfully- had followed the trail into the forest. They had been working their way through the trees when something had hit Watson from behind and knocked him out. He remembered nothing else until he had awakened as they were tossed- he had no idea by whom- into a deep, dark pit. As deep as it was, there was very little room at the bottom. About 6 feet by 6 feet with barely enough room for Holmes, who was much taller than himself, to lay.

Watson of course had no idea how long he had been asleep- or if he had even been asleep at all- when all of a sudden their little pit was flooded with light. Whatever had been covering the hole had been moved just enough so that Watson could see a most grotesque, plastic face. He realized almost immediately that it was, in fact, a mask. He turned his gaze away from the man who held them captive to use the light to examine his friend. He was paler than usual and his breathing was shallow, though he had known that by feeling. His forehead was stained with blood though the wound did not appear as bad as Watson had feared.

The masked man at the top of the hole threw something down. Some pieces of bread and a flask of water.

"Please," Watson appealed, "My companion needs medical attention- he has not woken all this time. Please…you may keep me here as long as you like, but please let Holmes go."

The masked man let out a cold, cruel, unsympathetic laugh and, without speaking, closed the cover of the hole over the two men, enveloping them in darkness once more.

Watson reached around blindly for the food and water the man had dropped down to them. His hands found the flask and he sat up painfully to try and encourage Holmes to drink. He unscrewed the cap and lifted the flask to the man's lips. Holmes was unresponsive but Watson managed to get a few drops down his throat at any rate. Watson took a quick sip himself then lay back down beside the detective.

He awoke a while later in the dark and fear gripped him momentarily. He reached out, searching, until his fingers found Holmes' hand and pressed against his wrist where Watson could feel his slow but steady pulse. Reassured, Watson closed his eyes, not releasing Holmes' wrist so that he could feel his pulse even in his sleep.

A sudden change in Holmes' pulse awoke Watson instantaneously. He heard Holmes groan and knew that, finally, he had awakened. He said nothing, but lay quite still, listening as Holmes lifted his head, then lay back down with another groan. He lay silent and Watson had no doubt that the detective was doing what he did best- observing and deducing.

"Watson?" came his voice finally, weak and strained.

"I'm here old chap. You've had quite a nasty knock to the head I'm afraid."

"I'm quite aware," Holmes said dryly, "…I can't see."

"We're in a hole. You aren't blind," Watson assured him, "There's been little light since we first arrived."

"And how long has that been?"

"As if I have the slightest idea. It's been pitch black, except when our captors threw down food and water."

"Water?" Holmes said. Watson nodded and then remembered Holmes could not see him. Watson realized, quite suddenly, that he still held Holmes' wrist. He released his grip and retrieved the flask of water. He pushed it into his hands and heard the sounds of Holmes unscrewing the cap and drinking deeply.

"Don't suppose you got a look at our captor?" was the next thing he asked.

"He was wearing a mask," Watson said.

"Tsk tsk. You didn't notice anything else? Any distinguishing features? Any of our surroundings? For instance, is there anything in this pit apart from ourselves?"

"Forgive me," Watson said a little wryly, "If I was more concerned about checking out your head injury than observing and deducing things. That is, after all, your job, not mine. My job consists of being a doctor."

"You need not worry about me," he said dismissively, "I'm fine."

"You are far from fine, Holmes, you were unconscious!" Watson declared.

"That is of little importance-"

"On the contrary, my dear fellow, it is of all importance. You need to be resting- you need to describe to me any aches or pains you have so that I may make a better guess as to what exactly is wrong with you."

"Rest? I was unconscious for who knows how long? That was rest enough," Holmes replied, "As for what's wrong with me, well, people have been wondering that for years."

This was as close as Holmes got to humor and it made Watson smile a little. He was glad Holmes couldn't see him, however.

"Hmph," Watson snorted, "You could have a concussion or a fractured skull or brain swelling- you could die within the next five minutes and you would have no warning because you are too stubborn to admit you are hurt."

"Well that is all the more better for me, isn't it? Still," Holmes said with some consideration, "If it will put your mind at ease… my head hurts."

"I need something a lot more specific than that, Holmes! Is it a sharp pain, a dull pain, an ache? Do you hear bells? Whistles? Clanging noises? Do you see any colors or-?"

"It's an ache," Holmes said, "And all I hear it a worrywart doctor and all I see it black. Satisfied?"

"Not entirely," Watson snorted, "But it will do for now. I can deduce that you do not have any lasting damage and it's probably a mild concussion. You _will _see a proper doctor once we escape."

Holmes muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "that's what you think" and grunted.

"_If _we escape," he said.

"Don't be so pessimistic," Watson said, "After all, Lestrade and the rest of the police force know we were out at the farm. They will come looking for us."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better, knowing that your fate and my own rest in the hands of Lestrade and the police department?" Holmes snorted, "I'm surprised we aren't dead yet."

He had a point. Lestrade was an _okay _detective- but he certainly didn't measure up to Holmes' standard. Aside from that he was self-concerned and never failed to doubt Holmes, no matter how many times Holmes ended up solving his cases for him, he had no imagination whatsoever and any speculations about crimes performed were generally wrong, though he pursued them faithfully until Holmes proved him wrong.

"Whoever our captors are they do want to keep us alive," Watson said thoughtfully, "Considering they threw down food and water."

"Yes, no doubt they didn't _intend _to give me a concussion," Holmes said blandly.

They sat in silence for a while and Watson wondered if Holmes was thinking or if he had fallen asleep again. He listened intently for any sound of movement- any slight shuffling or small movements that people usually made- but he could hear nothing but his own breathing and the fainter, quieter, breathing of the detective. This didn't surprise him of course. Even if Holmes was awake, he was generally inhuman with his ability to keep his body still.

"Aha!" Holmes cried out, startling Watson out of his thoughts.

"What?" Watson inquired, a bit annoyed that his friend had startled him so bad as to make his heart jump and his pulse race.

"Come climb onto my back, Watson- see if you can move whatever it is that covers the hole."

"On to your-? …Holmes, I really must insist it be you who climbs onto my back," Watson insisted, "You weigh a lot less and you are injured. And you are taller. You've a more likely chance than me of being able to reach."

"You do have a point… Yes, alright. Onto your knees, then, Watson."

Watson got down on his hands and knees and Holmes clambered onto his back. Watson winced as Holmes' heel dug into his ribs.

"Can you reach?" he inquired.

"Almost…" said Holmes, straining, "I think-"

The wooden ceiling moved a little bit and a small beam of light shone down into the dark pit.

"My fingertips can barely reach and I can't move it any more than that," said the detective. He leapt down off Watson's back.

"Sorry," Holmes said airily as Watson massaged his ribs and sat down, his back leaning against the wall so that the beam of light fell on him. He could just barely make out Holmes' features in this small amount of light, though he had no doubts that the detective could see him a lot better than Watson could see him. He had, on previous occasions, got the impression that Holmes could see in the dark…but that had been before he knew what true darkness was. Not even Holmes could see in the blackness that had been the pit.

They sat in silence for a little while. Watson could tell Holmes had his thinking face on now. Watson squinted around at their pit. It was, as he had thought upon first seeing it, completely empty of anything other than Holmes, himself, the little bit of bread, and the canteen of water.

"You do fidget quite a lot, Watson," Holmes said after a while.

"I wasn't aware than I was moving at all," Watson replied, startled.

"Unconscious little movements that most men make. I myself have mastered the unconscious desire to move constantly."

"I should like to know how."

Holmes looked at him curiously, then decided to share with him.

"I spent hours studying lizards when I was a lad and practiced being still for hours at a time. While other kids ran around playing with sticks and stones, I mastered patience and honed my powers of observation and deduction."

"Somehow I can imagine that," Watson said with a smile, "I bet the other kids thought you were weird, too, didn't they?"

"Yes," Holmes replied unconcernedly, "Though of course, my brother Mycroft was even weirder than I. Most of the time he laid about, reading or drawing. On the occasions our parents forced him out of the house, he would accompany me in whatever I did rather than play with the other kids. We had our own games, however."

"Such as?"

"There was this shed behind our house where we liked to play. One person would have a full minute to look around the shed, then he would close his eyes and the other would make some small change in the room- move a watering can an inch, clear a spider web, that sort of thing. Then the other would have to deduce what it was he had moved or changed. The longer we played, the less amount of time the person had to look around the room."

Holmes fell silent again. He didn't often talk of his family or his childhood. Suddenly he started.

"Listen," he said to Watson. A moment later Watson heard the sounds that had reached Holmes' sharper senses- the sound of raised voices, one of which was clearly the voice of Lestrade. Holmes and Watson both began to shout.

"Lestrade! Lestrade, we're in here!"

There was a shuffle up above and a moment later the pit was flooded with light. Watson squinted up into the face of Lestrade and two other officers. The officers helped the bedraggled men out of the pit.

"How long have we been missing?" Watson asked almost immediately.

"Three days," Lestrade replied.

"Holmes needs to be taken to a doctor. He was unconscious for most of the time," said the doctor.

"I don't need a doctor," Holmes scoffed, "How did you find us Lestrade?"

"It was detective Stanley Hopkins. He found the same trail you did, I suppose, and followed it to where we say a struggle had taken place and there was some blood on the ground- where he had captured you no doubt. He tried to jump us. Luckily, there was more of us than him."

"Who is he?" Holmes asked, nodding to the man whom the other officers had handcuffed.

"Don't know yet, but we will soon enough," Lestrade assured him, "I'll let you know when we find out. You and Watson can go back to Baker Street, though I suggest you see a doctor for that injury, Holmes."

"I have a doctor," Holmes replied, nodding to Watson.

Later, back at their house on Barker Street, Watson bathed and bandaged Holmes' wounds. The detective had been silent the entire ride home and Watson observed that he was trying not to let him know he was a lot more hurt than he thought. After some persuading and even a little begging, Watson discovered that Holmes had two badly broken ribs and one broken finger, as well as a number of assorted bruises.

"Holmes, these can't possibly be all be from the fall. What did you do?" Watson asked as he began doctoring his wounds.

The detective didn't answer immediately.

"…After the man knocked you out, I fought with him. I fought well…but he was better, obviously," Holmes said, slightly bitter.

After he finished doctoring his wounds, Watson gave Holmes some medicine for pain and made him go to bed. He left Holmes then and went to bathe and doctor his own wounds, of which there were few. When he had completed this task he peeked in at Holmes, who was not asleep, but had been tossing back and forth since Watson had left the room.

"Holmes you need rest," Watson said reprovingly. The detective said nothing, merely looked at him with grey eyes that were clouded from the pain medication. Watson sighed and gave his friend more medicine, then started to leave the room.

"No," Holmes murmured sleepily, "Stay."

Watson raised an eyebrow at him.

"Just for a while…please."

_Holmes must have hit his head harder than he thought, _Watson thought to himself.

"…Fine," Watson consented and sat down in a chair near Holmes' bed.

As Holmes closed his eyes, Watson leaned back in the chair. He was tired as well and he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Slowly, his eyelids closed and Watson fell asleep.

He awoke an hour or so later with a stiff, sore back. His leg was still sore from so many hours spent in the cold, damp hole. Feeling groggy and weary- much too weary to walk down 17 stairs- Watson climbed into bed next to Holmes.

"Watson?" Holmes asked groggily.

"Who else would it be? I fell asleep in the chair and I am much too sore and tired to walk down all those stairs."

"Mph," Holmes grunted consentingly and turned over. Within seconds he seemed to be asleep again. Watson lay there awake. Pain was shooting down his leg, making it impossible to sleep… that and being so close to Holmes. In the pit they had been even closer, but somehow it wasn't so bad when it was pitch black. Watson was extremely conscious of Holmes' body so close to his, even when he turned over, facing away from the detective, and closed his eyes.

"Watson, you must quit fidgeting," Holmes groaned, startling Watson quite badly.

"Sorry. I thought you were asleep."

"I _was _asleep."

"Sorry. It's this damned leg- it hurts," Watson replied.

"It would hurt a lot more if I kicked you out of my room and made you walk downstairs," Holmes reminded him.

"I'll be still," he promised.

Watson lay quite still for a long time, unable to sleep. Once he was quite certain Holmes was asleep again, he dared to turn over once more, though slowly and delicately so as not to wake his companion. He was now quite close to Holmes' back. Every breath he breathed was the intoxicating scent that was so purely Holmes. Finally, Watson was able to close his eyes and drift off into sleep again.

He awoke again a few hours later from some very inappropriate dreams that made him curse himself inwardly…though these were not the first dreams of this nature. He opened his eyes to see Holmes was now facing him. His eyes were closed and Watson could discern no rise and fall of his chest. He felt tendrils of fear sink in and he reached out his hand gently to touch his face. He was warm, much to the doctor's relief. He didn't remove his hand, however. His skin was quite soft and in sleep looked much more peaceful than Holmes awake could ever look.

Watson ran his hand gently over his smooth face and even touched his lips, which he were surprised to find were softer than any of the women he had ever kissed. Maybe it was still the lingering effects of his dream or maybe it was something more, but Watson wanted very much to kiss him. It's not as if he would know. Watson plucked up the courage and, very gently and swiftly, pressed his lips to those of the detective. He lay his head back on the pillow within an almost inaudible sigh.

"Watson?" Holmes murmured quietly, his breath hot on Watson's fingers. Watson froze and jerked his hand away. He lay still, eyes closed, and tried to force his breathing to be steady.

"I know you are awake, Watson…I can hear your heart beating fast," Holmes said softly. Watson swallowed.

"I'm s-sorry, Holmes. Do you want me to leave?"

"On the contrary, doctor… I want you to stay."

Watson dared to open his eyes and saw the grey eyes of the detective staring determinedly into his own eyes. Slowly and somewhat shakily, as one who is not accustomed to such things, Holmes kissed Watson's lips. The doctor's breath caught in his chest and he ventured so far as to slip his tongue into the detective's mouth.

_This must be a dream, _Watson decided instantly, _and if it is, then I shall enjoy it. After all, we might still be in the pit._

"What are you thinking, doctor?" Holmes inquired, breaking the kiss, for which Watson was grateful for he had been running out of air, but unwilling to break the kiss himself.

"Can you not deduce it?" Watson asked with a faint smile. Holmes smiled as well.

"Humor me," said the detective.

"I was thinking that this is a dream," he replied.

"That is what I was thinking, too. I must have hit my head harder than I thought."

"I was also thinking, that if it is a dream, I plan to enjoy it as much as possible."

With that being said, Watson kissed him again. He could feel Holmes smiling against him.

"I concur," Holmes murmured and slipped his arms around the doctor. They kissed hungrily and fervently for a few minutes, then Watson's fingers found the buttons on his friend's nightshirt.

He undressed him, careful of his friend's wounds, kissing every inch of skin as it was exposed. Watson ran his hands over Holmes' chest. He had wanted so badly to do it before, when he was dressing his wounds. It delighted him to see that his friend, who was usually so steadfast, was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated in a way that usually only cocaine did to him.

"You are grinning like the cat who has caught the bird, Watson," Holmes said, breathing unevenly. "What are you planning-?"

Watson smirked before he sucked on his right nipple.

Holmes arched his back and moaned. "Watson!"

Watson loved hearing his name this way. He sucked and nibbled on the nipple until it was hard and pink, then moved on to the other one. Holmes writhed beneath him. Watson glanced up and saw he was biting his lip to keep from crying out again. He loved this effect he was having on the detective. Grinning, he trailed his kisses away from his nipples, down his stomach. When he reached his pants and started to pull them down, Holmes flinched.

"Don't," Holmes said, reaching down and taking the doctor's hands in his own.

"Why? I thought you were going to enjoy this as much as possible?"

Holmes said nothing, but removed his hands. Watson continued slowly, giving him every opportunity to stop him. When his pants were down, Watson could see Holmes was completely aroused. He found his trail of kisses again and continued down. Holmes arched his back and groaned when Watson kissed his erect member, then took him in his mouth. He used his mouth, along with his hands, touching him in all the right ways, until Holmes was drenched in sweat and shaking. Watson looked up to see he was biting his lip so hard it was bleeding.

"Watson!" he gasped. "I'm going to-"

Watson moved out of the way and watched as Holmes came magnificently, his seed shooting into the air and splattering on the sheets. It seemed to last forever and when it was over, Holmes went quite still. He was breathing heavily and soaked in sweat. Watson could see a trickle of blood on his lips where he had been biting them. He crouched above him and kissed the blood away, but he found Holmes strangely unresponsive. He stopped kissing him and looked down to see a familiar far-away look in his friend's grey eyes. He got the same look about him when he was thinking hard on a case.

Watson pulled away and sat back on his heels. Holmes didn't seem to notice.

"You're not having regrets?" Watson asked a little anxiously, unable to read his face. Holmes came back to him from some deep place in his mind. He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head 'no'.

"You're speechless? I never thought I would see the day," Watson said with a faint smile, little reassured.

"I've just…I've never…" Holmes said, his face flushing. Watson let this sink in.

"Never?" he asked in disbelief.

"Never," he answered.

"Not even when you were young?"

"No…Well…I was curious once, but only as to why it seemed to affect the minds of other boys so. I tried, but…well, I thought there was something wrong with me," he whispered.

"There's nothing wrong with you, you're just a little…odd," Watson said and Holmes smiled a little.

"You're still wearing a lot of clothes," he said almost shyly. Holmes surprised him by sitting up suddenly and beginning to unbutton his shirt with quick fingers. He kissed Watson, then broke the kiss and began to kiss different parts of his face. This he did in an analytical sort of way, experimenting. Watson never thought he would be one of the detective's experiments, but he found he didn't mind. It was a familiar dark expression in his friend's grey eyes. He even let out one of his self-satisfied expressions when he found a spot below Watson's ear that made him moan when kissed.

Holmes quickly rid him of all his clothes and continued to experiment with his rough but quick hands and his impossibly soft lips. He stopped and let out an 'aha' when he found a spot below Watson's stomach that made him arch his back whenever he touched it. He did this several times until Watson's eyes started tearing up.

"I'm not a science experiment, Holmes," he gasped, then hoped that he had not hurt his feelings. The detective laughed, however, and moved on. He began to touch his member experimentally, until Watson was harder than he had ever been. By now Holmes was fully aroused again himself, but he seemed more intent on investigating Watson than his own desires. He used his rough hands to touch different parts of him until Watson stiffened, about to come.

"Wait," Holmes said and drew away.

Watson let out a groan of protest at the sudden lack of contact, but Holmes had gotten on his hands and knees.

"Isn't this how it's done?" he asked promptly. Watson almost laughed, but he didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"Not unless you have something slippery- oil or lotion-"

Holmes got up hurriedly and returned with a jar of cocoa butter. Watson was going to ask why his friend had cocoa butter to begin with, but stopped when Holmes began to spread it on him.

"You're quivering," Holmes observed as he methodically stroked Watson's member. Watson found he couldn't speak.

"And you seem to have lost the ability to speak," he continued in his perceptive tone. "I wonder-"

"Shut up, Holmes," Watson managed to gasp. The detective laughed again, however. He finished applying the slippery substance, then got on his hands and knees again. Watson didn't hesitate, but got behind him and positioned himself.

"Wait," Holmes said again. "I should like to see your face."

He flipped over and scooched down. Watson tried not to laugh and found a new position. His member was hard against Watson's stomach and it made him all the more aroused.

"Do it," Holmes instructed and Watson slid into him. Holmes winced a little, but did not take his curious gaze off Watson's face. Watson began to move inside of him, but it did not take long. Holmes was so impossibly tight…When Watson flooded forth inside of him, Holmes let out a surprised sound and came on his stomach.

They both collapsed back onto the bed. Holmes got the deep look on his face again- processing data. This time Watson looked thoughtful again.

"Holmes? This isn't a dream, is it? My ribs hurt."

"Clever deduction, Watson," Holmes said with a faint smirk.

"…What are we going to do?"

Holmes turned over on his side to look at Watson.

"Enjoy it as much as possible anyway," he said and kissed him again.

**THE END**


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